


The Moon

by goodgirl_astray



Series: The Sun, the Moon, the Truth [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-09 18:39:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5551118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgirl_astray/pseuds/goodgirl_astray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melissa's memories about her secret lust and hate relationship with Peter Hale. Melissa POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "The Sun". Prequel to "The Truth". Background to "Good things come to those who wait"  
> Assumption - Melissa and Peter have a secret lust and hate relationship from the moment she learns he is a werewolf until he's taken to Eichen House.

I’ve never been more stereotypically Latina than when I’m arguing with Peter. The beast drives me crazy!

“He’s my son!” I yelled throwing the glass of wine at his head.

I didn’t even see him move. The glass broke on the wall at the height his head should have been, but his head was half an inch from me now, eyes glowing.

“You gave him life. I gave him power! I gave him a second life and now he’s more mine than yours!”

I’m afraid and aroused at the same time. I hate that he can sense both these things. I hate him.

“Just say the word, and you can join us.”

His voice turned from steel to silk and my head is spinning. He’s made this offer before and in my sane moments I try to figure out why he’s repeating it. In my insane moments, like this one, I think about letting him turn me just to have the chance to be the one to rip his throat out and take all his power.

I’m hardly ever sane when it comes to him. How can he even offer this? He’s not an alpha anymore. This beast knows more than any of us.

But I don’t say the word, and I can see him knowing from my heartbeat that I’m calming down. He always tries to bring me to the edge on sanity before offering me the change. I’d lie if I said I’m not tempted. I’d like to be able to re-build the bridge between me and my son. Ever since Scott changed, we’re more like friends than mother and son. I like being his friend, but I’m his mother. I can’t stand being a liability to him.

And yet that’s what I am. Especially when I’m alone with the most cold-blooded, manipulative, calculating bastard I’d ever met. No one would even know what happened to me if he decides to kill me.

We’ve met like this many, many times. We’ve had crazy passionate sex and neither Scott, nor Isaac, two werewolves who live in my house, not even Derek who is far more experienced than them, no one had been able to notice. Werewolves are supposed to be able to smell even trace amounts of scent, and yet Peter is able to have them all fooled. And again I wonder, just how much this beast knows. He has me ensnared. If I ask anyone who knows anything about werewolves, I’d lead them to my dirty little secret. No. Not little. Fucking Peter Hale on a regular basis is not by any definition of the concept a **little** secret.

He can kill me with no consequences. We both know this, and yet every time I get the itch, I call him. Every time I call, he comes. He makes the arrangements and we get a room in a different hotel and it happens again. He can never say no and I think that he might hate me for this.

We don’t hate each other enough to end this unsuitable, unhealthy, insane affair. He would kill me for power. I would kill him for my son. As long as neither comes into play, we continue our addiction.

Every time he offers me the change, I’m tempted. What stops me?


	2. Chapter 2

It didn’t start like this. It started with the tingling feeling I got when he was around. It started with my choice to ignore the warning signs, and to take him at face value. It started with his lie that he was not dangerous and with my lie that I believed him.

Peter is not the nice guy he pretended to be when he asked me out. And I have to wonder if I would ever want a second date with that guy. I’m not lying to myself. I like the darkness behind the charm. Plenty of nice guys asked me out. Plenty of creeps, too. I guess I’m still looking for a version of Rafael who wouldn’t hurt me. A version of my first love. A man with the same strength and danger surrounding him, but with more control over his demons.

He’s never the one who calls. I’m always the one who picks up the phone. He shows up. Every time. He’s never late. Never questions my timing. Never failing to please me.  

Why can’t I stay away?

The first time he morphed when we had sex, I didn’t tell him to stop. I wasn’t terrified. I wasn’t particularly aroused, either. Small consolation that. So, the deep seeded reason for reaching out to him was not the monstrous part. But it didn’t disgust me either. I know it was a test and I failed it. Although in his view, I probably passed it.

“If you can help it, don’t change when you’re with me,” I tell him while I’m getting dressed.

He watches me from the bed, sheets tangled around him and I can’t help thinking there’s something cat-like in his posture. He watches me get dressed like a big dangerous cat and instead of lazily flicking his tail, there’s something else twitching under the sheets. He waits until I’m fully dressed to get out of bed. He’s fully erect and he looks perfect. From the tip of his penis to the fire in his eyes. I’m wet before he touches me. I back off as he approaches, I don’t want to get precum on my very sensible skirt. He looks like a Greek god and I’m wearing the same clothes I use for going shopping.

I walk back until my ass hits the table. He stops half an inch away and I put my hand around his shaft, rubbing the wet tip with my thumb. He growls and swiftly turns me with the back to him. Before I can react, my skirt is up, I’m bent over the desk and Peter is sliding inside me.

“I can help it,” he says.

Through the haze of sensations, it takes me a while to realize he was answering me. I wonder if he is going to change anyway, and just told me that it’s his choice. I wouldn’t mind all that much if he does it again. I know it’s the same monster, whatever shape he takes.

He’s doing it slowly. Long, slow thrusts. His hands sneak under my shirt. He caresses me with such gentleness it’s scary. I think he feels it, too, because he shakes himself and press me hard into the table. He picks up the pace. It takes seconds until we both reach orgasm. I hate that he can have this effect on me. I’m pretty sure he hates that I have the same effect on him.

It didn’t start like this.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Author’s note_ **

**_The three stories (“The Sun”, “The Moon” and “The Truth”) are going to merge with the timeline of “Good things come to those who wait”, and that’s when “The Sun” and “The Moon” will be completed. I might just add chapters, out of sync with the timeline, like Melissa’s memories surfacing at random times (meaning if I get a flash of inspiration I can’t resist). “The Truth” might run along “Good things…” if I feel the need to write more of Melissa’s POV._ **

**** **_Quick disclaimer – I didn’t research if werewolves and humans can have children, but the point of this story is the obsessive affair between Melissa and Peter and I will add the assumption that this is biologically impossible just because I want them to have unprotected sex._ **

 

 Sheriff Stilinski came by the hospital today during my lunch break. I could tell there was something bothering him. My friend is a straight shooter and when he’s fidgeting I know he’s about to say something important.

 We went to the diner around the corner and when we were waiting for the food I noticed that he’s not wearing his wedding band. My first reaction is one of sheer panic. He’s going to ask me out. This is going to ruin our relationship. He’s been like a husband to me for years in so many ways and yet I know we would not work out as a real couple. I’m desperately wishing my phone would ring. For the first time in my life I’m hoping something horrible has happened and they need me back at the hospital.

 “I need your advice,” he says.

 I’m hoping against reason that he has a medical problem.

 “Sure. What about?”

 My voice sounded just a tad squeaky. Good thing he’s preoccupied and he doesn’t seem to notice.

 “I have a date with Natalie Martin and I need some help. Where to take her… what I should or shouldn’t say. I haven’t had a date in… too many years. You’re the only one I could ask.”

 He kept talking, floundering, even blushing a little. I’m looking at him dumbstruck. And more than a little offended. He’s not asking ME out? He’s finally trying to get his life together and I’m not the one he wants to date? After the initial outrage, I feel the relief. So we’re not going to ruin our friendship. And behind that thought lurks the darker reason. I don’t have to give up Peter just yet.

 I manage to smile, and I’m actually starting to be amused by the situation.

 “You couldn’t go to Stiles for advice, huh?” I ask.

 He lets out a bark of laughter and the atmosphere unfreezes.

 “Yeah, like you would ask Scott about dating,” he says.

 It’s funny to think about horrifying my baby with dating questions. It’s funny as long as I don’t think about Peter in that equation. I tell him about a nice romantic restaurant, and I try to tell him as diplomatically as possible not to talk about his dead wife during the date.

 He walks me back to the hospital and as soon as he’s gone my hand reaches involuntarily for the phone. Peter picks up at the first ring.

 “I want to see you tonight.”

 When it comes to Peter, the only courtesy I’m capable of is to be direct.

 “I’ll text you the coordinates,” he says, not sounding offended.

 The coordinates. An impersonal way to say a very sordid truth. Hotel name and room number. He never asks what time. He probably knows my schedule. He will be there. Waiting. Willing and able to take away the weariness and the confusion. I love my friend and I’m happy for him, and I want him to be happy. But him being happy with someone else will mean more loneliness for me.

 

\-----

 

“So… the sheriff,” Peter says as soon as I walk through the door.

 “What?” I ask, more surprised by his directness than the fact that he knows.

 His damn, freakish sense of smell! He must have picked up his scent on my clothes. I haven’t even gone home to shower. I needed my fix. I was too desperate to forget my loneliness in the monster’s bed.

 He comes towards me like a perfect host, helps me take off my coat, then offers me a glass of wine. He doesn’t even bother to answer me, and I don’t pretend he got things wrong. He walks around me. He is so very close. The heat of his body is burning my back and the strong red wine is messing with my head. I realize that with all the talking at lunch… I hardly ate. I try to blame the dizziness on the wine when Peter puts his arms around me and nuzzles against my neck. I close my eyes and without willing it, I imagine another man’s hands on my breasts. His whispers slide through my mind and his breath caresses my skin. The world is spinning as he speaks.

 “Do you ever wonder… how it would be like… with him?”

 His damn brain never stops.

 “No.”

 I don’t know why I lied. It’s not like I should be ashamed of anything.

 “Liar,” he says and pinches my nipples.

 Arousal was like a heady breeze until this moment. It feels like a hurricane now.

 “I have a gift for you,” he says. “You will be with him tonight.”

 What is he talking about? I want to ask but he’s still playing with my breasts and nothing coherent comes out of my mouth. All of a sudden, he’s gone. I gasp and open my eyes only to find the room being plunged into darkness. I can’t see anything and I start to get scared.

 “Peter?”

 “No names,” a voice says.

 I know it’s Peter but it doesn’t sound like him. It sounds almost exactly like… I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but… Peter’s games are always amazing. All my life I thought I hated surprises. And this monster has made me love them. He has decades of experience and an imagination that should frighten any reasonable person. If I were a reasonable person, I wouldn’t be here.

 In the darkness, I hear him getting close. And I know it’s part of the game. The real Peter can move so stealthily I wouldn’t be able to hear him. By the time he gets near me, I’m already imagining he is… the other one. Ok so I may have played with myself one night or ten imagining the Sheriff’s hands touching me, but this is some next level insanity.

 “I’ve been thinking about this for years,” he says and my knees turn to jelly. The voice… is perfect.

 His left hand threads through my hair, supporting the back of my neck, pulling me closer, while the right hand is on my breasts. The kiss that comes in the dark is warm and passionate. He squeezes my breast with eagerness and shyness, the touch having none of Peter’s unnatural grace and untamed desire. Peter’s passion is cold and ruthless. This feels so much like love, it should frighten me. It’s only a game. It’s only a game.

 We stumble towards the bed, undressing clumsily between fevered kisses. It feels incredibly real. When we’re in bed, he gets straight to the point. Peter would have teased me, this man touches me greedily. Peter would have postponed, this man climbs on top of me and finds his way between my legs without hesitation. His body is warm and so are his kisses. His breath is labored, he’s panting with exertion, unlike Peter, the superhuman for whom even the fastest rhythm wasn’t taxing.

 “I love you,” he whispers in another man’s voice, but the eyes glow blue in the darkness.

 “I love you,” I whisper back.

 He shudders, and it’s all sorts of crazy because I think I just said I love you to two different men at the same time.

 The thrusts become more violent, faster, and the illusion is shattered even before I can feel him growing impossibly thick inside me.

 “Oh, God, Peter!” I shout and dig my nails into his shoulders.

 He’s pounding so fast, and so hard it hurts. But I want more. More of this. More of him. I scratch his back, holding on to him while the orgasm tears through me. I feel like my heart is going to explode with the force of it.

 As always when it’s over all I want to do is run away. After all this time, I still can’t handle the shame. I stumble out of bed and try to orient myself in the unfamiliar room. I step over discarded clothes and I try to guess by their texture if they are mine or his. I manage to find the bathroom door. The light is blinding me but I have to check myself before leaving. Scott will probably be at home when I arrive. I have to shower and fix my hair, my makeup and my clothes before I leave. I’m checking myself in the mirror for bruises on any parts of my body that would show. The bruises on my hips and thighs don’t count. No one would get to see those.

 At first I think it’s a trick of the light, but no matter how much I blink I can still see blood on my hands. I gasp and I stare at my hands. There’s blood and skin under my fingernails. What have I done?

 He must have heard my gasp, or maybe my heartbeat, but he’s in the room with me. He puts his arms around me and whispers soothingly.

 “It’s alright. Everything is all right.”

 I pull myself out of his embrace and I back away from him. With my eyes closed, I show him my hands.

 “Hey,” he says gently. “It’s ok. Look.”

 And I do. He turned his back and I can see his skin marred by long scratches. There must be dozens. I know he is a monster but I hurt him. No matter how rough sex got, he had never drawn blood. But I had. As I watch, the wounds close and the skin heals. Not even scars remained. But the blood is still there. On his skin and on my hands.

What have I become?


End file.
